


We Learned About the Stars and the Trees

by Cowboy_Sneep_Dip



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Crossdressing, F/F, Friendship, Gender Identity, Romance, School Dances, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:06:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23193667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cowboy_Sneep_Dip/pseuds/Cowboy_Sneep_Dip
Summary: “I…” Annette swallows again. “Um...can I kiss you?”Ingrid’s eyes widen.“Ah! I mean, a...like, as a friend. A friend kiss.”“Oh,” Ingrid says. “A friend kiss.”
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic/Ingrid Brandl Galatea
Comments: 13
Kudos: 85





	We Learned About the Stars and the Trees

A bell tolls out over an empty courtyard. 

There’s little motion around the monastery, save the quiet hustling of students from here to there, hoods up and cloaks tugged tight to ward off the late autumn chill. Brown leaves rustle and fall in the breeze, piling up in the corners of yellowing lawns and dusty stone balustrades. It’s not winter, not yet, but icy fingers of frost brush the windows and pluck at the grass each morning. 

Classes have let out for the holidays, and the classrooms are dark and silent, unoccupied until the new year begins. 

It is Ethereal Moon in Fódlan, and all of Garreg Mach prepares itself for the upcoming anniversary of the monastery’s completion. 

Ingrid stares at the frost on the corner of the windowpane before leaning back on the bed. “It’s really not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?!” Mercedes exclaims. “Your dress is ruined! What were you thinking, training in it? What are you going to wear to the ball?”

“I was thinking about just wearing my uniform…” Ingrid admits sheepishly. She had never been one for dressing up. 

More than that, she had never really dressed up for anything. Her family never had the money for fancy parties and balls, and even her crest didn’t afford her the privilege - no, the responsibility - of dressing up all pretty to mingle with other nobles. It had been something her father had often lamented - how is she going to find a husband, looking the way she does? All scuffed knees and bruised arms and smelling like the stables.

Mercedes sighs and rubs her temples. “This is a special time, Ingrid! I just want you to look your best.”

“I think I look fine,” Ingrid says, prodding a little container of skin-colored paste Mercedes had sat on her desk. She swipes a finger through it and sniffs before making a face. “This all just seems like a little...much.” She wipes the goop on her skirt.

Mercedes furrows her brow and grabs a cloth to wipe Ingrid’s skirt off.

Maybe Ingrid  _ is _ a hopeless case. The way she’s sitting on the bed, her boots propped up on a chair, her hair a tangled and sweaty mess from training earlier...Mercedes sighs. “Okay. No makeup.”

“Oh, thank the goddess,” Ingrid breathes out, flopping back on the bed. “Look, it’s just a school dance, it’s not like this…” she frowns. “I’m not going to meet the love of my life, is what I’m saying. Besides, if I need to pretend to be someone else, I don’t want them anyways.”

“I just think you should care a little more,” Mercedes says softly. “Think about how you reflect on Prince Dimitri, as one of his knights.”

Ingrid stares at the ceiling before sighing. “You’re right. You’re right.” She pushes herself up. “I’ll talk to Bernadetta and see if she can fix the rips in my dress.”

Mercedes shakes her head. “Washing that mud out is going to take all afternoon.” She frowns and looks Ingrid up and down. “Maybe Annie would have a dress that fits you…”

Ingrid relents, allowing Mercedes to tug her up to her feet and into the hallway, towards the stairs. There are a few other students milling around - girls fixing each others’ hair, boys helping each other adjust ties and jackets and lapels. Ingrid smiles politely at Felix as they pass. He doesn’t acknowledge her.

_ For the best, _ she thinks wryly. 

Mercedes steers Ingrid towards Annette’s door and raps her knuckles on the wood. “Oh, Annie!” she calls out in a singsong voice. “Are you there?”

“M-Mercie!” Annette says, her voice muffled. “Ah, just a second.” 

There’s a sound of shuffling and a shadow behind the door, and then Annette’s bright face pops out. “Hello, Mercie- ah!” she blushes, stepping back from the door and clutching the top of her dress up. “I didn’t realize you had a guest.” She spins around, blushing furiously. “Could you button the back of my dress, please?” 

Ingrid’s face is bright scarlet and her gaze bores holes into the carpet. She stares and tries to empty her mind of anything - the flash of skin she saw, slender shoulders and bare back. 

“There you go,” Mercedes smiles, standing back. “Let me just fix the neckline. And...perfect!” she beams. “You look lovely, Annie.”

“Aw, thank you,” Annette blushes, still unsure how to regard Ingrid, standing shamefully in the corner. She cocks her head to the side. “Oh, goodness, Ingrid! Your dress!” 

“Haha,” Ingrid rubs the back of her head. “I just wanted to get some last-minute training in.” She looks at the mud-streaked fabric. “It’s not that bad, right?”

“It’s destroyed!” Annette gasps. 

“We were hoping you might have a spare you could lend Ingrid,” Mercedes says, ever cool in the face of Annette’s frantic anxiety. 

Annette winces. “I don’t think so.” She holds up the folds of her skirt. “This is the only nice dress I have.” 

“Ah, well,” Ingrid says, backing up and fumbling for the doorknob. “Guess it can’t be helped, I’ll just wear my unif-”

She opens the door and stumbles out into the hallway, barreling directly into Ashe as he walks by. 

“Oh! Ingrid!” he smiles. “What a coincidence, I was just on my way to return this book to you-”

Mercedes steps out of Annette’s room, Annette nervously behind her. 

“Ah, thanks, Ashe,” Ingrid takes a weathered paperback from Ashe’s extended hand. She looks him up and down. “Aren’t you going to the ball tonight? You’re still in your uniform.”

Ashe smiles and nods. “Yes, I was about to start getting dressed.” He laughs. “It’s much faster for boys to get ready, I suppose.” 

Ingrid nods in agreement. 

“There’s no time for idle chit-chat,” Mercedes says, stepping out into the hall. “We need to find Ingrid a new dress before the ball!” 

Ashe makes a face and looks over the tatters of fabric Ingrid once called a dress. “I wasn’t going to ask…” 

“Some last minute training,” Ingrid sighs again. At some point, maybe she should confess that training helps to settle her nerves before the sorts of things that usually make her intensely uncomfortable. Like formal events, or parties, or mingling with other students, or-

“Oh!” Ashe beams. “It’s not a dress, but I have some spare clothes that might be just your size.” He fumbles in his uniform pockets for his keys. “Dedue and I went into town earlier to do some grocery shopping and I got a new jacket for the holiday, and…” he shrugs. “My other one is a little old, but it doesn’t have holes in it. Or mud.” He leans out and peers at Ingrid’s torn skirt. “Or blood.” 

-

Ingrid stands in front of the full-length mirror in Annette’s room and straightens her collar. 

It’s like staring at someone else entirely. 

Ashe’s evening wear suit is matched to his school uniform, all black fabric and gold accents, fitted pants tucked into black boots, a jacket with gold buttons and epaulets and a short cape draped in the back. Ingrid shifts nervously in her boots. 

She had worn a suit once before, a hand-me-down from one of her brothers. That suit, like Ashe’s, was old and smell faintly of mothballs. Unlike Ashe’s, though that one was patched at the elbows and ill-fitting to Ingrid’s then-slender frame. She didn’t like dressing up, even then, even less so for the occasion. 

She stares at herself in the mirror and tries very hard not to remember Glenn’s funeral. The wind cutting through her borrowed jacket, the distant, muted words of a cleric. 

“Are you okay?” Annette asks, her soft voice calling Ingrid back to reality. 

“Oh! Yes, sorry,” Ingrid says quietly, straightening her posture and reaching up to adjust her collar. 

“Are you feeling alright?” Annette asks again, cocking her head to the side. “You seem bothered.”

“Just...thinking about things,” Ingrid forces a smile. “Really, don’t worry about me.” 

“If you say so…” Annette trails off. She reaches out to smooth out the wrinkles in Ingrid’s capelet. Her fingers dance along Ingrid’s spine, making her instinctively tense forward. 

She stares at Annette’s reflection in the mirror, watching her fuss with Ingrid’s suit, tidying up all the little details. The Annette in the mirror looks up. 

“Do you want me to redo your braid?” she asks. 

“Are you sure it’s not too much trouble?” 

“Not at all,” Annette smiles, sitting on the bed and patting the space next to her. “I’ve braided Mercie’s hair hundreds of times.” 

Ingrid sits stiffly on the side of the bed, unsure if she should relax or not. She’s used to tying her own braid, usually hastily, while on the way to class in the morning. She winces as Annette undoes her messy attempt, pulling hair out of tangled knots. 

“Sorry,” Annette says. “Did that hurt?”

“Just a knot,” Ingrid says, relaxing back into Annette’s gentle pulls. 

“I’ll try to be more careful.”

Ingrid stares at the mirror, watching Annette work. She always makes the same face when she’s focused, a sort of resolute determination and relentless optimism, even for something as simple as undoing a poorly-tied braid. She drops the cords of Ingrid’s hair down her back and gently runs her fingers through, combing them straight.

When Annette looks up, Ingrid catches her eyes in the mirror and blushes, tucking her head down. 

Annette’s hands are firm but gentle, a nice feeling as she combs through Ingrid’s hair and gently pulls it to and fro, gathering cords to twist together. 

Ingrid closes her eyes and sighs. “Wow, you really do such a better job than me.”

“Well, practice makes perfect,” Annette says, tidying up a braid. 

“It feels so nice when someone else does this for you,” Ingrid murmurs, breathing softly, leaning back into the feeling of light pressure, a massage against her scalp. Annette combs through her hair with her delicate fingers. 

“Haha,” Annette giggles nervously. “My hair’s always been too short for someone else to do.” 

“Mm,” Ingrid exhales.

Annette shifts on the bed, scooting closer. 

Ingrid’s head is still tilted, her eyes closed, her lips half-parted, her chest softly rising, falling. Annette swallows. 

She’s so close. Her heart thrums in her chest. She’s close enough to see all of Ingrid’s details, her eyelashes, the scrape on her cheek from sparring the other day, the curve of her lips and the warmth of her breath. 

It’d be so easy.

Just lean out, and - 

Annette blushes furiously, unsure where to put her hands, to put her anything.

Ingrid opens her eyes slowly. “Oh - is there something on my face?”

Annette pulls back, her face flushed and scarlet, her hands wildly protesting. “Uh, no - it’s not - I mean, I, um -” she takes a deep breath. “I finished braiding your hair.”

“Thank you,” Ingrid says. She tilts her head to the side, curious about the red tint in Annette’s cheeks, her heaving chest.

“I…” Annette swallows again. “Um...can I kiss you?” 

Ingrid’s eyes widen.

“Ah! I mean, a...like, as a friend. A friend kiss.”

“Oh,” Ingrid says. “A friend kiss.”

“Yeah.”

Ingrid considers for a moment. She’d never really had any girlfriends before. N-no, not girlfriends, friends who were girls. She had never spent much time with any other girls before...what, meeting Dorothea? All her friends were boys, the same idiot boys that she spars with and scolds for making messes. 

Maybe a friend kiss is okay. 

Ingrid stares at Annette’s lips. They’re soft and pink, lightly painted for the night’s festivities. Ingrid’s mind flashes to all the books she’s read, stories with lipstick marks on silver armor or pale skin.

“Okay,” she says softly. “What...um, what do I do?” 

Annette giggles and blushes, leaning in. “Like this,” she says, pressing a chaste kiss to Ingrid’s lips.

Neither of them are willing to part first. There’s no passion, no urgency, just awkward uncertainty and lips against lips. Ingrid pulls her face away and swallows. 

Annette curves her lips into a smile. Ingrid was right, they were soft. “Like that.”

“Oh,” Ingrid says, unsure what else to say. Is it really okay to do things like that? She can’t stop staring at Annette’s lips, or letting her eyes drop lower, to the gold collar of her dress, her slender, nervous fingers bracing herself against the bed. “Can we do it again?”

Annette nods and tilts her head forwards.

-

Ingrid stands in the corner, nervously nursing a glass of wine. 

“Oh, come on,” Dorothea teases. “Not even one dance?” 

“I don’t…” Ingrid blushes. “I’m not good at it.”

“You can’t fool me with that,” Dorothea says, tapping Ingrid’s nose. “I’ve seen how quick you move on the battlefield.”

“It’s different!” Ingrid protests.

Dorothea laughs and twirls off, her arm hooked into Edelgard’s, back into the swirl of dancing bodies and shuffling footsteps and laughter and music. 

Ingrid sighs and rests back against the wall, bracing herself with one hand while the other holds her empty glass with something like disdain. 

She didn’t feel at home at an event like this. Give her a pitchfork and some hay over marble floors and composite columns and gilded reliefs. She sets her glass down on an empty high table and sticks her hands in her pockets. 

“Having fun?” 

“Oh!” Ingrid smiles. “Hello, Ashe.” 

Ashe raises his eyebrows. “Wow, you look fantastic. I was worried it wasn’t going to fit you, but it’s great.”

“Ah, is it?” Ingrid smooths out the front of her jacket, fixing the folds where it tucks into her pants. She smiles, half a blush tinting her cheeks. “The servers keep calling me ‘sir’.”

Ashe laughs. “Well, considering the lack of skirt, that’s not much of a surprise.”

Ingrid frowns. 

“Just joking,” Ashe lifts his hands. “Really, though, you look great.” He gestures. “Keep it, if you want! Saint Seiros Day is coming up, after all.” 

“Thank you,” Ingrid says, fixing one of her epaulets. “Are you sure?” 

Ashe nods. “Really, it’s no problem. I know how hard it can be to come by nice clothing that fits you.” 

“Isn’t that the truth,” Ingrid nods, leaning against the high table. “Truth be told, I’ve never really worn a dress to something like this. Just hand-me-downs from my brothers.”

“I guess I’m the opposite,” Ashe chuckles. “I was always the big brother, passing my clothes down.”

Ingrid looks at her fitted pants. Isn’t Ashe younger than her? 

“Well, enjoy the ball,” Ashe says, bowing slightly. “Looks like I’m being summoned.” 

Ingrid smiles and waves him off, thanking him again for the borrowed clothing. 

She keeps catching glimpses of herself as she walks, reflections in cold glass with stars beyond, reflections in shining brass or silver vessels. She’s always surprised, and each time there’s a moment of something like pride. She never felt like much of a knight in skirts and dresses, but now - now she looks more like how she feels. Angular, strong, knightly. Yeah. Knightly. 

Ingrid straightens her collar. Maybe Dorothea still does want that dance. 

-

“My, my, handsome,” Dorothea grins smugly. “Enough wine in you to dance?” 

Ingrid blushes, too flustered by the compliment to pay attention to the joke.

Dorothea is an excellent lead, it turns out, even as Ingrid tries and fails to keep her feet in step. It’s one thing to dart around a training ring or a battlefield, and another thing entirely when those footsteps aren’t flowing into thrusts or lunges. It’s three laps of the dance floor, spinning and stumbling, before she finally gets her feet. When she does, it feels good to sway in motion with the other dancers, to the beat of the music. 

She rests one hand on Dorothea’s hip, the other up in the air, clasping hers. It’s not awkward or embarrassing with Dorothea - she makes it so natural, so effortless. Ingrid just slots in, and it’s just a few minutes before she feels like she’s doing...well, doing okay, at least.

“There you go,” Dorothea smiles down at her, her painted lips bright and proud. “See, you’re getting it.”

Ingrid spins around her, nodding her head to keep time with the music. “Y-yeah,” she says, not entirely certain. She’s got it down well enough that she can focus on things other than her hand on Dorothea’s hip and her nervous, circling footsteps. 

Almost the whole school seems present, with students dancing, milling around, chatting and drinking and eating hors d'oeuvres from little plates. Ingrid has already made several nervous visits to the buffet setups and cleaned them out of meat skewers in a nervous haze. She catches a flash of orange hair in the crowd, just a split second before it’s gone, back into the void of black and gold and motion and music. 

Ingrid frowns. “Dorothea…” she says carefully.

“Hm?” Dorothea stops humming along to the music. 

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Dorothea says.

“Um…” Ingrid can feel warmth creeping up her cheeks. “Ah, I just...well, I’ve never really been friends with girls before…”

Dorothea’s laugh is clear and musical. “Oh, Ingrid, it’s...well, it’s not exactly...unnoticeable.”

Ingrid winces. “Is it that bad?” 

Dorothea grins. “Ingrid, no noble lady would  _ ever _ sit the way you do.”

Ingrid frowns, almost hurt. 

“Aw, don’t give me that look,” Dorothea says, spinning Ingrid around her. “It’s one of your charms.” 

“Dorothea, do girls kiss each other?”

Dorothea stops in her tracks, causing Ingrid to stumble into her. 

“Ingrid.”

“What?” Ingrid frowns. 

“ _ Ingrid _ .” 

Ingrid winces. 

“I…” Dorothea purses her lips, pauses, then nods. She takes Ingrid’s hand and tugs her away from the dance floor and to the side of the room, weaving between students in pursuit of an empty table.

Dorothea pulls her to a table and snags two glasses of wine from a passing server. “Okay, this is going to be a long talk.”

“What?” Ingrid frowns at her drink. “I just mean…” She blushes and shakes her head. “No, I just meant that...is that a friend thing? Kissing other girls? Or is that…”

Dorothea waits. Realizing Ingrid doesn’t have an end to her question, she nods. “Something more than friends?” 

Ingrid nods. 

Dorothea raises an eyebrow. “Is this...a hypothetical question?”

“Uh...y-yeah,” Ingrid stammers. “Just something I was thinking about.”

“I see,” Dorothea hums playfully, not wholly convinced. “I suppose for some girls, it’s a friendly thing.”

“For some girls.”

“Well, you’d know Faerghus customs more than me,” Dorothea confesses. “But I’ve met people from all over, and I know it’s common to kiss hands, knuckles, rings, even cheeks…”

“But what about...um...the lips.”

Dorothea cracks a grin. “Hm. Now that’s a tricky one.”

-

“Ohh, I can’t do it, Mercie, I’m too nervous!”

“It’s okay, Annie,” Mercedes gently pats her arm. 

“Ohh, I just can’t do it!” Annette looks about ready to explode as she nervously paces around their high table, her low heels clacking on the marble floor in time with her rapid pace. “She’s - she wouldn’t want to anyway, look how much fun she’s having with Dorothea.”

Mercedes tilts her head and smiles. “It looks like she spent the greater part of their dance staring at her own shoes.”

“Oh, goddess, is she looking over here?” Annette blushes and ducks behind Mercedes. “I can’t look.”

“She’s still talking to Dorothea,” Mercedes says, patting Annette softly. “Just go talk to her, it’ll be fine!”

Annette covers her face with her hands. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“B-because we...w-we…”

“Kissed?”

“AUGH! Don’t just say it!”

Mercedes giggles. “Would you like me to invite her over here for you?” 

“N-no, I...I’m sorry, I’m...I need some fresh air,” Annette says, walking away. She closes her eyes and breathes in and out as she walks, trying to still her thrumming heart. She had never kissed  _ anyone _ before, and now - she puts her face in her hands. Goddess, what was she thinking?

She slips out of the banquet hall and into the cool winter air. The courtyards are dark and empty and a brisk breeze blows between the stone walls of the monastery. 

Annette shivers and wraps her arms around herself. She’s still staring up at the sky when she hears muttering and a shuffle of boots. 

“Oh, come on, you stupid piece of-” Ingrid scowls, tugging at her hair as she stumbles outside. She pulls her braid apart, leaving her blonde hair draping down her back, fluttering in the wind. She looks up, surprised. “Annette!”

Annette yelps and spins around, startled by Ingrid’s approach.

“Sorry!” Ingrid stammers. “Um...sorry to trouble you, but could you do that thing you did earlier?” 

Annette’s face erupts into a deep crimson flush. “Th...the thing? What thing?”

Ingrid’s eyes widen and she waves her hands defensively. “I just...I got my hair all tangled up dancing, and I was hoping you could...um...tie it...up again.” As the words come out of her mouth, the tension between them evaporates. 

Annette breathes a sigh of relief. “Oh. Y-yeah, that. I can definitely do that.”

“Thanks, Annette,” Ingrid says, brushing bangs out of her eyes. “You’re a real lifesaver.”

Ingrid leads Annette back inside and the two find a bench along one of the hallways running parallel to the banquet hall. Ingrid sits first and fluffs out her hair with her hands. 

“Sorry again,” she says, trying to straighten it up as best she can. 

“It’s not a problem,” Annette says, sitting next to her. 

Ingrid looks strange with her hair down like that. Annette sees her like that so infrequently, only at the tail end of long training sessions or on days when Ingrid’s stiff formality has given way to fatigue. Her hair drapes down her back, shimmering like gold in the torchlight, Ingrid softly tapping her boot against the stone floor in time with the muffled music that wafts out of the ballroom. 

She’s so handsome. 

“Um…” Ingrid says quietly. “My hair.”

“O-oh! Y...yeah.” Annette leans forward to reach around Ingrid’s neck, but instead of her hair, she lightly cups the back of Ingrid’s head and tugs her down into a kiss. 

It wasn’t intentional, it was instinctual. It was desire smoldering in her chest like the torches in the wall, it was the way Ingrid looks in her pressed jacket and boots, her bright eyes, everything. The way her mouth gives way to Annette’s as they kiss.

Annette shifts her hand to twine her fingers into Ingrid’s golden hair, pulling lightly. 

Ingrid follows suit, reaching out to embrace Annette, to pull her closer. She tastes sweet and her mouth is soft. 

A door down the hall bangs open with a clatter and Ingrid and Annette separate with the force of an arrow loosed from a bow. 

Ingrid sits up straight, too straight, folding her hands on her lap, ever the attentive knight, while Annette slides down to the opposite end of the bench, tucking her face into her shoulder and blushing a deep crimson.

The interrupting party - a rowdy and possibly inebriated trio of students in Black Eagles colors - pass by, laughing and jostling one another as they exit the festivities.

Ingrid waits until their laughter and voices vanish around the corner before letting out a sigh of relief. 

“S-so-” Ingrid begins to stammer before being interrupted.

“I-I like you!” Annette blurts before clamping her hand over her mouth. 

“W-what?” Ingrid stares at her.

“I...I’m sorry,” Annette bows her head. “I just...I…” she closes her eyes. “I’m sorry!” she pushes herself up and hustles down the hallway before vanishing back into the ballroom.

“Wait, what about my braid?” Ingrid calls after her. 

She sighs and slumps back in her bench, staring up at the dark ceiling.

-

“Well, I sure as hell can’t help you,” Sylvain shrugs, each hand full of a bundle of Ingrid’s hair. He holds up two fistfuls, frowning at them. “I...like this?”

“Ugh, never mind then!” Ingrid groans, tugging away from him. “I figured with all the time you spend with girls, the least you could do is learn to braid hair!”

“Yeesh, what’s your problem?” Sylvain winces. 

Ingrid rubs her temples. “I’m...I’m sorry, Sylvain.” She closes her eyes. The band is packing up, still, and the last stragglers in the ballroom are a few stray dancers, students picking over the dessicated corpse of the buffet tables, and a smattering of servers tidying up tableclothes and collecting discarded wine glasses. A few students, drunk, are collapsed against the walls, sleeping. Ingrid frowns. A few students and Manuela, it seems.

“I’m sorry,” Ingrid says again, shaking her head. “Have you seen Annette? I’ve been looking for her all evening.”

Sylvain shrugs. “Can’t say I have. Though, I did see Mercedes heading off towards the cathedral. She’d probably know, right?”

Ingrid nods. “Okay, thanks, Sylvain.” She straightens up her jacket and ties her hair in a loose ponytail before shuffling out the side of the ballroom, weaving between empty tables and servers. She does make a quick stop at the buffet table to snag some miniature meat pies - cold, now, but food is food. And she needs something to steady her nerves.

She exits the ballroom, munching on pastries and heading for the stairs up to the bridge. What could Mercedes be doing at the cathedral so late? 

Well, praying, probably. 

The bridge to the cathedral is frigid and windswept. Clouds were rolling in from the north, a light snow brewing on the horizon to welcome in the new year with a fresh layer of frost. Wind cuts along the bridge, ruffling Ingrid’s hair and fluttering her cape.

She shivers and walks faster, looking for the warmth and shelter of the cathedral. 

Mercedes is at the far end of the bridge, her hands clasped in prayer, her closed eyes turned skywards. 

“Mercedes!” Ingrid says, gently touching her. “Mercedes, have you seen Annette? I need to talk to her.” 

“Hm?” Mercedes opens her eyes and cocks her head to the side. “Annie? Why?”

“I…” Ingrid bends over, resting her hands on her knees, breathing hard. The cold air burns her lungs, and she made that last sprint across the bridge a little too quick. “I need to apologize for something.”

Mercedes hums softly and considers it. 

“Please,” Ingrid pushes herself upright and wipes her sleeve across her face. “You’re her best friend.” 

Mercedes smiles. “She’s at the Goddess Tower, waiting for her special someone, I think.”

“What?” Ingrid furrows her brow. “Her...who?”

Mercedes hums and giggles. “I guess you’ll have to go find out, won’t you?”

Ingrid’s heart races. Annette’s special someone...who could it be? Not Mercedes...maybe Felix? The two of them seemed close, and Felix wasn’t in the ballroom…

Ingrid wipes her face again. What is it that’s making her heart thump so hard in her chest? Why does her face seem to flush and burn like that? She stops at the balustrade and catches her breath. 

Why does the idea of Annette meeting her special someone make Ingrid so sweaty and dry-mouthed and upset? 

She shakes her head. No, it’s not the time to think about that. She needs to apologize. 

The base of the Goddess Tower is bathed in shadow. The tower itself is a silhouetted monolith, a spire of black jutting up into the cold winter sky. The Ethereal Moon hangs above, a glowing light set into the darkness. Ingrid skips down the stairs two at a time. 

“Annette!” she calls out. “Annette, are you-”

“Ingrid?” Annette stands up from her seat on the stairs down to the tower. Ingrid had leapt right past her.

“Annette!” Ingrid whirls around, her hair an arc of ruffling gold around her. “Annette, I-”

“I wanted to apologize-” they both say in tandem. Ingrid winces and Annette blushes.

“You first,” Annette offers, and Ingrid nods. 

“I...I wanted to apologize,” Ingrid says again. “I shouldn’t have kissed you like that.”

“What?” Annette frowns. “I kissed you!”

“Y...you did?” 

“I mean, I tried to.”

Ingrid furrows her brow. “What were you going to apologize for?”

“Just...confessing like that,” Annette says, putting her face in her hands. “I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have just...said it.”

“No, it’s...um…” Ingrid sucks in a deep breath and sits next to Annette on the cold stone steps. She ventures a risk and rests her hand on the back of Annette’s. “I mean...I like you too. I think.” She sighs at her own inexperience. Give her a battle a hundred feet above a ravine before you give her this. “I’ve never…” she swallows. “I’ve never…”

“Kissed a girl?”

“Kissed anyone.”

Annette blushes, trying and failing to hide a smile. “Me neither.”

Ingrid gently folds her fingers around Annette’s, twining their hands together and squeezing lightly. “I told Dorothea and she laughed at me.”

Annette sighs. “That’s what happened when I told Mercie.”

“Well...maybe it’s okay, then,” Ingrid says, picking up Annette’s hand and holding it between both of her own. She lifts her hand and kisses the back. “Maybe we can have this adventure together.”

Annette giggles, before pursing her lips together and putting on a serious face. “I thought your parents wanted you to marry some rich noble?” She sighs. “I wouldn’t have even gotten in without a scholarship.”

“I don’t think my parents would approve of a lot of the choices I’ve been making,” Ingrid confesses, kissing Annette’s hand again. She tips her head forward and kisses her lips before pulling away. “I’m sorry, should I have asked-”

Annette shakes her head, closes her eyes, and tugs Ingrid close for another kiss.

They’re still kissing when the bell tolls, ringing out into the dark and empty sky. They jump, again, but this time Ingrid catches Annette, holds her close. 

“It’s the clocktower,” she says quietly. “Ringing in the new year.”

“Yeah,” Annette nods, resting her face against the crook of Ingrid’s neck. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This was a super fun piece done for @jireemblem on twitter ❤︎! I love,,,baby gay content and also Ingrid Gender content. 
> 
> Anyways! if you want to say hi, I'm on twitter @cowboy_sneep and on tumblr @lucisevofficial!


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